


Bought by Sherlock

by wheel_pen



Series: Nicobar [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, F/F, F/M, Nicobar, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:24:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5165426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After one of his favorite slaves is attacked by a visitor, Sherlock decides to bring them under his personal protection. Such as it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bought by Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> This story is set in a fictional modern country where slavery is legal. There is a huge disparity between the very rich, who sequester themselves in luxurious compounds, and the rest of the population.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

John strode down the hallway purposefully, his mind consumed by one thought, one task. He couldn’t let himself think beyond that.

“John.”

He wanted to not stop, to keep going and pretend he hadn’t heard, run if he had to. That was a bad idea for so many reasons, and it wasn’t even his first bad idea of the day.

“John!”

Sharper, impossible to ignore, a genuine command, and John braked on the marble tile and turned back around to face the man leaning against the wall. Who wasn’t even looking at him, but rather playing with his phone.

“Sorry, I have to—“ John began.

“Stop.”

“Sorry, I really have to—“

Sherlock looked up at him finally. “Are you about to violently expel some bodily fluid?”

John blinked at him in surprise. “No.”

Back to the phone. “Then you can stop. Because I told you to,” he added when he opened his mouth to protest. And John really couldn’t do anything else.

Sherlock looked up again and gave him a onceover, and John refrained from sighing. “You’re angry,” Sherlock began, which was not particularly insightful. “You’re angry and _reckless_ , and about to go do something stupid, which granted is not unusual for you. Don’t talk,” he ordered, when John started to. Now he was intrigued and wouldn’t stop deducing until he’d figured out the problem. “Strong moral sense. Someone’s been hurt. But you weren’t running, so they aren’t bleeding out somewhere. They were hurt unfairly, in your opinion. Probably one of your fellow slaves, that’s who you’d attend to. Someone especially vulnerable—child, elderly, woman—ah, woman,” he decided from John’s expression. “I said don’t talk. They’d have to be hurt badly for you to be this kind of angry. Not discipline from a supervisor, you’d accept that more readily.” John really hoped he wouldn’t.

“Not the public, there’s channels for that. The perpetrator is someone you don’t feel you have recourse against normally, hence why you’re going off determined to express yourself with violence. So, member of the family or a guest. Most likely suspect in the family is _me_ , but I haven’t done anything especially heinous lately, plus you didn’t stop when you saw me. A guest therefore is more likely. John, just don’t do it,” Sherlock advised, and John was mildly surprised by the change in his tone. He sounded almost… earnest. “What you’ve got in mind is almost certain to get you shot, and that’s not going to help this other slave, is it? So stop it and go back to your room.”

“It’s _Molly_ ,” John finally said.

Immediately Sherlock stiffened and fixed him with his brilliant blue gaze. “Beaten?”

“Badly.”

“Raped?” John shook his head. “Who?”

“One of the Brazilians.”

Thoughts flashed like lightning behind Sherlock’s eyes. “Take me to Molly.”

“She’s in the Infirmary,” John told him, not moving in that direction.

“Come with me,” Sherlock ordered, and John had to jog a bit to keep up with his long strides.

“They’ll—“

“They’ll be here for the rest of the week,” Sherlock snapped. “You’re not going to kill a Brazilian, John. Or even seriously maim one. You wouldn’t even make it to jail, you’d be shot in the courtyard.” John was not unaware of this, it just wasn’t a deterrent. “Tell me what happened.”

“He pulled her into a closet or something,” John conveyed. “She resisted, told him he needed an appointment, he beat her and left her there. Security found her when she crawled out.”

“Mycroft and his _f-----g_ security,” Sherlock spat, furiously. “People don’t like guards in their home. Then you can’t invite sadists in.” John’s eyes slide sideways and met Sherlock’s. “ _I make appointments_ ,” he said, defensively.

“I didn’t say anything,” John pointed out. “And this is worse than anything _you_ ever did.”

“How bad?”

“Broken ribs, broken nose, concussion—“

“She’ll _recover_?” Sherlock interrupted.

“She will,” John agreed. Which was good. But he didn’t think it should change anything.

Sherlock held his phone out as they barreled through the various security doors, the guards automatically opening for them. It was against the rules, and not very secure; but Sherlock could be very nasty to deal with. “Which one?” he asked, and John thumbed through photos of the Brazilian diplomatic delegation.

“That one.”

Sherlock glanced at the photo, memorizing it. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“She identified him already, to Greg.”

Sherlock snarled. “Greg!” It was not a positive endorsement.

“Hey, he does a good job,” John defended. “But they’re all in a meeting with Lord Mycroft. Do not disturb.”

“Where?”

“Rose Room.”

Sherlock glanced at him. “Greg told you that,” he surmised. “Knowing what you would do. That’s wonderful security for the guests.”

“Not to mention me,” John added dryly. He didn’t _want_ to be shot for murdering a guest. But he thought of Molly’s bruised, bandaged face and the consequences didn’t seem so important. Even though—as Sherlock had pointed out—the action wouldn’t help her at all.

You knew you were over the cliff when _Sherlock_ was the voice of reason.

They burst through the Infirmary doors and Greg was clearly _not_ pleased to see them. Or Sherlock at least. The feeling was mutual.

“We’ll pick him up as soon as the meeting—“

“It should _not have happened_ ,” Sherlock hissed at him. Which Greg well knew, and could not deny. “What is the f-----g _point_ of all these security cameras if no one is actually _watching_ them?”

“Sherlock,” John summoned, indicating the curtains around Molly’s bed. He knew Greg felt bad enough already and John didn’t blame him for what happened; the house was huge and there was often more punishment for interfering with guests than not. Sherlock broke off berating the Security Head, for the moment at least, and pushed through the curtains.

Molly started to cry when she saw him and Sherlock completely transformed. “Molly, you’re going to be alright,” he told her, his tone nearer to soothing than John could’ve imagined. He sat down on the edge of the bed and took her hand. “John says you’re going to be alright—No, it’s okay.” She tried to turn away from him, not wanting him to see the damage to her face, and he reached out to gently stroke an unbruised patch of her cheek. John felt as though he should leave, give them privacy, but he didn’t even want to move for fear it would remind them he was there. “Shh, you know I don’t like it when you cry. Why are you crying?” Typical Sherlock question. “Does it hurt? John, turn up her pain meds.”

“I’ll get the doctor,” John offered.

“You _are_ a doctor,” Sherlock snapped. “And it doesn’t require a medical degree to push a button.”

John grabbed the chart from the foot of her bed and checked it quickly, then adjusted the medication drip upwards a tiny amount. In lieu of initials he wrote “John-221” next to his addition to her chart. Proper procedure and all.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Sherlock encouraged Molly. “You’ll be alright soon. Just relax.”

“I’m sorry, I—“ Molly began miserably.

“No.” Sherlock cut her off. “You did what you were supposed to do. You’re not going to get in trouble for that.” The tiniest bit of a smile ghosted across her face. “Go to sleep,” he advised, leaning forward to brush his lips against her forehead. “I’ll be back soon.” He stood and left her bedside as quickly as he’d arrived, and John hurried after him again.

The expression on Sherlock’s face meant nothing but trouble. “Don’t get in my way,” he ordered Greg as he passed, before the other man could even speak. He raised his hands to indicate he was backing off, and stopped one of his men from following too closely.

“Where are we going?” John ventured as they retraced their steps.

“Rose Room,” Sherlock answered abruptly. “Don’t you know where it is? You were taking a very roundabout route.”

“I’m not allowed to cut through the family quarters,” John reminded him.

“Oh, right.”

“Are you going to do the stupid, reckless thing _I_ was going to do?” John guessed.

“Probably,” Sherlock admitted. “But I’m going to do it better, and not get shot at the end.” John knew this quip did not indicate Sherlock found the matter trivial; in fact he was furious, radiating danger with every stride, and everyone they passed stared after them. The part of John that wanted vengeance found it thrilling; the sensible part was extremely alarmed. Both parts thought it more prudent to keep silent.

As they approached the meeting room Sherlock spun towards John, pinning him with his blazing blue gaze. “You. Do not. Enter. This. Room,” he ordered fiercely, startling John, then in a more normal tone added, “Hold my phone,” while thrusting the device at him. Then with a dramatic flair he shoved the double doors to the meeting room open.

John positioned himself with a good view of the interior. Lord Mycroft glanced up at the intrusion, something more than irritation in his eyes when he spotted his wayward younger brother. “Sherlock, this isn’t—“

Sherlock ignored him, per usual, heading straight towards the perpetrator and hauling him bodily from his seat at the conference table. Now Mycroft was more curious and stopped his assistant from calling Security. Sherlock slammed the surprised man up against the wall and kneed him viciously, then threw him to the floor and kicked him.

“Not fighting back?” Sherlock snarled, kicking him again. “It’s a little different when it’s not just a slave girl, isn’t it?!” Sherlock jerked the man back up to his feet, easily avoided a disoriented fist, then grabbed the back of his shirt and ran him headfirst out the window.

John’s jaw dropped and his mind blanked on what that window overlooked, and how far down it was. He nearly ran over to see for himself but caught himself at the threshold of the room, mindful of Sherlock’s instructions. With a shake of his shoulders Sherlock straightened his jacket and headed for the door, heedless of all the eyes on him. “Sorry for the interruption,” he tossed off to his brother. Then he was striding down the hall again, back towards the Infirmary, and John ran to catch up with him.

“That was… brilliant,” John told him, slightly awestruck.

“It was _not_ brilliant,” Sherlock denied dryly.

“It was amazing,” John insisted. “I’ve never seen a free person defend a slave like that.”

“Never?” Sherlock seemed surprised, and John shook his head. “Well, maybe it _was_ amazing,” he allowed immodestly. “Not too overdramatic?” he checked.

“Well, you did throw a man out a window,” John remarked.

“He only fell about thirteen feet,” Sherlock dismissed. “Less, if he hit the statue.” John clapped his hand over his mouth to avoid laughing suddenly, which was so wrong, and which he blamed on nervous tension.

Then Sherlock made a noise of frustration. “Oh, it was Grandfather’s statue,” he remembered. “If it’s damaged Mummy’s going to kill me.” This time the inappropriate giggle escaped from John, and Sherlock glanced at him and joined in.

“Stop, we can’t be laughing,” John snickered, a bit desperately. “I mean, um, he could be dead—“ This thought failed to sober him.

“Unlikely,” Sherlock judged. Then he thought about it again and shrugged nonchalantly.

John cleared his throat and tried to calm down. “Uh, won’t you get in trouble for this?” he asked.

“I never do,” Sherlock pointed out. “Give me my phone.” John handed it over and Sherlock shot off a quick text. “Maybe Maintenance can fix the statue before Mummy even notices…”

“Priorities,” John agreed.

Sherlock snorted in acknowledgement. “Well, you were going to do the same thing,” he reminded the other man.

“Wouldn’t have thought of the window, though.”

“That’s what I meant by doing it better,” Sherlock claimed. “Also, _you_ would’ve had consequences.”

“None of those for you?” John asked again. He could hardly imagine it was possible.

“There never are, are there?” Sherlock replied philosophically. “Consequences. For people like me.”

“Free?” John guessed.

“Rich,” Sherlock clarified, and John saw what he meant.

Several security guards raced around the corner and passed them, going the opposite direction. Greg followed, more slowly. “Heard there might be some trouble in the Rose Room,” he remarked innocently. “You didn’t see anything, did you?”

“Grandfather’s statue might be damaged!” Sherlock replied as they crossed. “In the Rose Courtyard. Public safety hazard.”

“Right,” Greg agreed, without complete understanding.

John tried to avoid giggling again. Just nervous tension, right. Really, the whole situation was insane. And… wrong. But Sherlock was correct, he’d been prepared to do the same thing. Only he would’ve been shot. Whereas Sherlock feared no punishment at all, except his mother’s displeasure. Which in principle was not right, either, because if Sherlock could do this to one person—a free, foreign guest in his home—he could do it to anyone, free or slave. But John just couldn’t make himself care in this case. Not when he saw the Infirmary up ahead and thought of Molly lying in it.

Sherlock swept through the doors for the second time and into Molly’s space, her eyes popping open when she heard him. “See? I’ve come right back, like I told you I would,” he said. “Are you cold?” He dropped his expensive jacket from his shoulders and draped it over her chest. “Can I stay here a while?” Elegantly, as if he did this all the time, Sherlock lay down on his side next to her, his lean body not quite touching hers. Even with her face half-covered in bandages John could see she would deny him nothing. “No, don’t move, I want you to be comfortable. Are you comfortable?”

John watched them until they settled, unnerved at the easy way Sherlock laced his fingers through Molly’s, and decided it was a good time to leave. “John,” Sherlock said, and he stopped, though the other man was talking to Molly, “had a rather foolish idea a few minutes ago. Sit down and tell her about it.”

John sat down on the other side of the bed and Molly’s fingers slipped into his. He didn’t think she would find this misadventure humorous, even darkly. “Um, well, I was going to find the man who did this to you and…” His intent, he trusted, was obvious.

“John, no,” Molly told him, starting to tear up again. She knew full well what it would cost him.

“Rubbish idea,” Sherlock criticized. He gave John a prompting look and the other man finally got the point.

“Yes, and then _he_ ”—indicating Sherlock—“decided to do it himself,” John told her dryly. “Which is apparently completely… okay?”

“John said I was brilliant,” he confided to Molly, who choked out a chuckle through her tears. “But, honestly, I’ve always wanted to throw someone out a window—“

“Don’t make her laugh,” John warned. “Ribs.”

“I’m not being funny,” Sherlock insisted.

“You threw him out a window?” Molly asked. Her voice held the same awe John had felt.

“I wasn’t even thinking clearly,” Sherlock claimed, as though this proved the depth of his feeling, “or I would’ve picked a different window, that didn’t have Grandfather’s statue below it.” John slapped his hand over his mouth again, not quite suppressing a chortle. “John’s a bit hysterical,” Sherlock judged.

“I really am.”

“Molly,” Sherlock said, and his tone suddenly became more serious, “I’m going to buy you from my brother.” She sucked in a shocked gasp of air. “So you can live in my suite, and not wander about the house, and I won’t let anybody touch you but me,” he promised, his eyes burning into hers.

Discreetly, John slid his hand away from Molly’s because obviously, Sherlock took this seriously. “Except John,” Sherlock added more lightly, and now it was John’s turn to be surprised, “because I’m going to buy him, too.” Now the blue eyes branded John for a moment, and John honestly could not say how he felt about it.

Then Sherlock turned back to Molly. “You’ll need each other for support, because I’m h—l to live with.” John laughed and Sherlock frowned at him, then looked back at Molly. “He _does_ have a tendency to laugh at me when I’m being completely serious,” he noted to her.

“He’ll learn,” Molly predicted.

“I want you to teach him how to—“ He stopped at what John thought was a very inconvenient point when they heard voices beyond the curtains, Greg and Mycroft. “Start crying,” Sherlock hissed in Molly’s ear, which was not a difficult order to follow. “No, Molly, don’t cry,” he said in a louder, more obviously soothing tone. Mycroft pushed the curtain back to look at them, and a properly pathetic lot they were, too. John felt his eyes start to burn, ridiculously, and tried to be discreet in sniffling, though he doubted either Holmes brother failed to notice. It’d been a bloody trying day.

“Molly, it’s alright,” Sherlock told her, after shooting a glance at John. “You didn’t do anything wrong, you’re not going to get in trouble.” He looked up as if just noticing his brother. “She’s not going to get in trouble, is she, Mycroft?”

It was hard to tell to what extent the man was moved by the scene laid for him. “No, I shouldn’t think so,” he admitted magnanimously.

“There, you see?”

“What about Sherlock?” Molly asked moistly. This was _not_ in the plan; both Mycroft and Sherlock seemed surprised she’d posed the question.

Clearly Mycroft didn’t want to discuss it in full right there. “Well, there _is_ the small matter of Grandfather’s statue,” he pointed out disapprovingly. John felt another laugh bubbling out of him and disguised it as a choking sob, burying his face in his hands.

“Hysterical,” Sherlock explained, getting off the bed. “Slightly unstable, really.”

“That must be why you like him,” Mycroft observed dryly. They stepped outside the curtain and Molly poked John’s leg; he quickly moved to the other side of the bed, which was slightly better for eavesdropping. Obviously they both had a keen interest in what was said next.

Mycroft stood stiffly in his slightly old-fashioned three-piece suit, walking stick drilled into the floor before him. Sherlock leaned against the wall lazily, insolent even, at least to those who didn’t know him well. Unusually, Sherlock lost the game of chicken over who would speak first.

“I want to buy Molly.”

“You did that yesterday,” Mycroft replied, clearly of the same mind on the situation. “If Bernardo had tried to make an appointment, he would’ve been told she wasn’t available.”

“Of course he was in the wrong anyway.”

“Well, yes. Protocol was explained to them.”

“A diplomat should know better.”

“He was only a junior member,” Mycroft dismissed. “Probably someone’s younger brother.”

Sherlock almost smirked at that. “I bought John, too.” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “In fact you gave me a deal on them.”

“Don’t push it.” Mycroft relaxed slightly and started to leave. “I’ll send someone with the contract.”

“Send Anthea,” Sherlock suggested with interest.

“No,” Mycroft denied. Not after what happened last time.

Behind the curtain John leaned down to whisper furtively in Molly’s ear. “He’s done it, he’s bought us. F—k. Is that a good thing, or not?”

He wasn’t really expecting an answer on that count. “What about Sherlock?” she repeated to him.

He knew what she meant. “They didn’t say anything,” he admitted. “No one seems to care. How can he get away with that? A foreign visitor? A diplomat?”

“I suppose in _your_ country, foreign diplomats get to do whatever they want,” Sherlock responded scathingly, overhearing the last line.

“Well, rather,” John agreed. “It’s called diplomatic immunity. Or, you know, don’t p—s off your international allies.”

Sherlock scoffed at this as he sat down in a chair and propped his feet up on Molly’s mattress. “We prefer, when in Nicobar, do as the Nicobarese do.”

“Or get thrown out a window,” John finished.

“Exactly. Phone,” Sherlock commanded, holding out his hand. He waited impatiently as John realized it was probably in his jacket and tried to dig it out without disturbing Molly too much. “Go pack your things and move into my suite,” he went on. “You can have the blue room. It _may_ have some things in it,” he warned. “Don’t touch them. I’ll move them later.”

John was immediately suspicious. “Is that the one with all the dead animals? Come on, I don’t want that one, the smell will never get out—“ He stopped when he saw Sherlock giving him the look that meant he’d crossed the line. Admittedly Sherlock set the line farther away than most, so John shut up and tried to look obedient.

“Molly gets the yellow room,” Sherlock told him slowly. “So it’s either blue, or green.” He did not follow up by saying John _had_ to take blue, and John couldn’t remember what the other rooms looked like. Knowing Sherlock he wouldn’t be surprised if the green room was even worse.

“Right, I’ll have a look,” John decided, his tone more conciliatory.

“Fantastic.” Sherlock went back to playing with his phone. “Now, by the way,” he prompted. “I’ll be here for a while.”

“Right. Bye, Molly,” John told her, kissing her forehead. “I’ll see you later.” Then he realized he was trapped by the way Sherlock had positioned himself. “Um…”

“Honestly, John,” Sherlock snapped, as though John was being deliberately difficult.

“No need to move, I’ll just step over you,” John assured him, trying not to sound as sarcastic as he felt. He swung one leg over Sherlock’s awkwardly, at the lowest point where he sat in the chair. Before he could move away Sherlock grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked him closer, and John stumbled and grabbed the chair arms for balance to avoid tumbling into Sherlock’s lap. Which might have been Sherlock’s goal all along.

“It’s, ‘No need to move, _sir_ ,’” Sherlock corrected in a low voice, his gaze bouncing between John’s eyes and lips, and John’s mouth went dry. “Do try to remember that, John.”

“Yes, sir,” John replied, stuttering only slightly. Sherlock gave him a devilish little smirk that made his heart pound, then released him. John swung his other leg over, even more awkwardly than before, and hurried off to his room to pack up what few belongings he owned.


End file.
